


A Different Kinda Different

by seagullandcroissant



Series: The Oatmeal Files [1]
Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: A Different Kinda Different AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Fluff, Gen, Hugs, My boy... Oatie!, Oatmeal AU, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Other, Supernatural Elements, Whelp!Oatmeal AU, Will add tags as I go along :P, lots of them - Freeform, oc au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 09:58:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16239299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seagullandcroissant/pseuds/seagullandcroissant
Summary: Otto Scarbaach: polymorph changeling, former spy and whelp collector, newly appointed Grand Commandant of the Janus Order. A single father.Oatmeal: 7 year-old fleshbag entering kindergarten, the son of Otto Scaarbach, born and raised in Arcadia Oaks. Or so he thought.--Or that one fanfic that’s an Oatmeal AU which may or may not have a single father Otto Scarbaach who works as the Grand Commandant for the Janus Order while trying to keep up with raising a 7 year old Oatmeal in the human world, who, all the while, is unaware of his changeling status and begins to realize the Troll world hidden under Arcadia Oaks will wait for no one.





	A Different Kinda Different

**Author's Note:**

> *Cartwheels in*
> 
> Hi! I'm Seagull! Welcome start of the Oatmeal AU train. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Chapter Warnings: OC character death, firearms

She was in front of him now.

He watched the thin, wiry body slip between pines, over hills, under brushes and brambles.

_ Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter _

All the while, Otto Scarbaach followed her quietly, silently, keeping a reasonable distance between them, walking on the balls of his feet and toes. He did not want to spook her. Not now, not so close.

_ Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter _

The German man was tracking a small troll, a Nihide to be exact. No bigger than a golden retriever, the slender creature looked this way and that as she trotted steadily along, nails continuing in their consistent clicking against the scattered stones across the forest floor.

_ Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter _

Otto’s glasses slipped with the sweat lining his brow and he pressed them up with a short, stubby finger. Picking his way forward, he sunk down to a squat behind a large pine, Otto trained his eyes on the small troll and pressed his hands into the soil, damp at the fresh drizzle of rain.

_ Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pit--! _

She stopped in her trot and disappeared behind a thick bush, her long, catlike tail the only thing visible to the naked eye of the other side. There was the crisp shuffle of leaves, a small hungry mew, before it met the faint sound of greedy suckling.

Otto’s eyes widened at the sound of his prize.

A Nihide whelp, a newborn but, already a highly sought member for the ever-expanding Janus Order.

His manicured fingernails dug into the earth, eyes flashing a glow, red and yellow.

Nihides were an elusive species. This one, and her young, were no exception. The polymorph changeling had been tracking the pair for days, the mother rarely stopping to eat or drink for herself and only pausing to feed her still nursing young she carried in her maw.

_ Strange, _ Otto contemplated as he listened to the sound of hungry feeding,  _ and stranger still... _

Stony, grey colored pelts camouflaged well in the dark of night, the faint constellation marks and bioluminescent horns obscured amongst the trees. Despite the small numbers, it was common practice of expecting mothers to birth outside the tribe, housing the twins present in each generation in hot stone caves before bringing back the young, eyes open and walking without assistance.

But, from the glimpses of the young, rounded face, and the way the she-troll had carried the whelp, it was clear that the Nihide kit was less than a moon cycle old -- a mere fraction of days a mother spent away from her tribe. Not to mention, there was only one whelp with her, instead of the promised twins of a Nihide birth.

Otto frowned slightly. He knew whelp fatality was rare but not unheard of in full-blooded trolls. It was possible this mother had lost one of her kits either at the hatching or during the journey back, before he’d begun to track her.

_ A shame, indeed, for both parties involved. _

Otto, huffing softly, shook his head from concern. There was still one, he kept in mind, and one was better than none.

A snap of a distant branch caused the head of the mother to snap up, curved pronged horns and dark twisted mane breaking out over the thicket. Otto swallowed thickly at the sight of the Nihide’s main defense, the sharp antlers a deadly weapon against any soft hided troll or unlucky human to cross its path.

He had to be careful. A stab of her curved points and slice from her back sickle claw could easily put him out of commission, not to mention, alert whatever tribe she was trying to return to of his and the Orders presence.

_ That, _ Otto Scarbaach mused,  _ would most certainly compromise any further attempts at acquiring such whelps. _

He licked his lips, tasting the salt of his sweat.

He would wait till she settled down to nurse her young again, overpower her in his troll form then, opening the fetch he held folded in his pocket --.

The mother Nihide stood suddenly, ears folded back.

Immediately, Otto Scarbaach flattened himself against the foliage, sucking in a sharp breath.

She had looked directly at him, he was sure of it. His long coat and hat were draped in moonlight, dark but not invisible. The man cursed inwardly to himself, rubbing at his messy facial hair before elbowing forward against the soil to creep closer and get in line of a view again. There was a rustle of leaves as his view was obscured from his lowered position and Otto paused and raised his head a bit higher.

Was she settling down again? Was she --?

A blur of grey ripped through the bush’s leaves, the long front claws resuming in their noisy retreat.

_ Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter _

Otto shot to his feet, his tell-tale heart rising to meet the tempo of the Nihides feet.

_ Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter _

She was getting farther away, the back of her dark frazzled mane and curved antlers the only thing visible between the trees as she curved her path, making a wide C.

_ Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter _

Otto crouched and readied himself. She was making a wide turn around, her side now towards him. The trees and bush thickened, obscuring the full view of her.

It wouldn’t take much to take her down now.

_ Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pit--! _

**_BANG!_ **

Otto hit the ground, covering his head as he felt his breath come in short bursts of air.

Hand running down his side, he realized he wasn’t hit by anything and looked up, the rush of blood loud in his ears.

Eyes scoured the horizon, before, with a start, Otto saw her.

The moonlight silhouette that had been trotting again at her steady pace was on the ground now, leaves and bush overturned where she had fallen and rolled to a stop. She did not make a sound or move, and Otto cursed at the sight, wondering about the lack of whelp from her nearby vicinity.

Otto spotted movement in the distant trees, three blurs dropping from the branches.

The German tensed, lowering himself further and holding his breath.

He wasn’t alone in these woods.

The figures blotted the backdrop of the wood, long coats and scarves fluttering as black boots crunched through the leaves in the inky darkness, gloved hands removing the branches and leaves that clung desperately to their clothes. Three men, large, tense, and armed, stalked forward towards their fallen prey, one cautiously pointing a still smoking rifle towards the ground. Mixed voices spoke as they stood carefully over her, one of the identical fleshbags placing a boot against the side to move her slightly.

She offered no response and a collective noise of victory rose up from wrapped faces.

Beads of sweat lined his jaw.

The young had not been seen or wasn’t even there. Alarms went off at the thought of even losing his prize. He had to find that whelp. Bring it back to the Order. That was his mission. The mother was no concern of his.

But, no matter how much his muscles screamed and throat opened and closed for air, he couldn’t look away.

Satisfied, the men began to speak to each other, voices muffled but nonplussed by the scene laying at their feet. One reached inside a pack strapped to his back, and, with a flourish and metallic zing, produced an object.

A bone saw, Otto realized, the blade glinting off the pale moonlight. He thought back to the pointed antlers he’d been so worried about earlier and inhaled.

So. That’s all they wanted.

Otto fumed, clutching at the grass.

A rack to pin on the wall. A  _ trophy _ .

Troll killers.  _ Murderers _ .

The men gave another chuckle at the sight, a hand coming to grab the curved horn and pulling it up to turn her face towards them, bonesaw poised and ready.

That was the final straw.

In a flash of changeling light, the tension Otto held in an anticipated ambush burst forth as he surged forward. A wild untamed roar escaped his opening maw, claws tearing into the soil as he rushed forward, closing the distance between him and the hunters.

Screams ripped through the forest, Otto swiping and slicing with his hooked claws blindly, aiming to hit anything on this group’s person. The closest man went down with a howl, clutching at his face, the cloth of his scarf torn and bloodied. The polymorph snarled at the other two men who stood aside, the bonesaw dropping from the shortest man’s hand as they dove for their fallen companion, dragging along as they began to run.

Stumbling, struggling, the three men fled into the night, yells and screams of terror echoing in the woods, before their footfalls of heavy boots faded into the distance.

Otto Scaarbach released his breath in an angry snort, a trail of mist escaping his snout, as his four eyes wandered back from the distant horizon and, slowly, surely, down towards his feet.

Otto Scaarbach was no stranger to death.

This was delivered in the form of a bullet. Silver. The death of guises and trolls.

Whoever those fleshbags were, they did not know this information on their own. They got help from somewhere. A rouge troll. A changeling. Someone. Something.

Otto Scarbaach stared at her wounded side to confirm his suspicions.

_ A shame,  _ Otto observed, _ a damn shame. _

The polymorph lowered his head closer, taking in the speckled grey hide, the untamed mane, and the ghostly, bony face. He felt a sense of obligation, some need to say something, anything, to this troll. He did chase off those fleshbags, after all.

“May…” Otto began, tusks parting as he struggled to find the right words, remember the right deity, “May… your soul find rest with Mother Mother.”

Gingerly, he brought his clawed hand down over her face, closing her eyes, before quickly drawing his hand away, the sensation of cold skin burning against his palm.

A small mewing sound snapped him back from the shock, the lingering troll looking over his shoulder at the muffled noise.

He took a few steps back and turned, form lumbering cautiously forward, ears raised.

It came again, a muffled cry, and the quadrupedal troll followed it back to the bush the mother had rested only minutes before.

In a flash of changeling light, he shrunk back into his human form, pushing his glasses up his nose, expression lines creasing as he approached the twisted thicket.

The changeling whelp hidden inside whimpered and Otto bent closer, settling his knee into the rustling leaves.

_ “Hallo…” _ he spoke, voice soft as he reached out, clearing the fallen leaves,  _ “Hallo…” _

The whelp was a small thing. No bigger than a kitten, the baby Nihide was curled up on its side, dark body shivering in the pale sliver of moonlight that sliced through the opening. It shared the same features as it’s mother: four legs, a curling tail, and a pair of emerging horns and curled claws at the back hooves, both only nubs and rounded with youth. Removing more stacked twigs and leaves from the petite body, he saw that the whelp was male and was as young as he expected. His eyes were still closed, oversized ears deaf and toothless mouth opening and closing, searching for his mother to be fed.

Eyes, Otto realized, that had not even seen his mother.

And, now, never would.

Tentatively, Otto shifted his hands underneath the body, cupping it and raising the Nihide from the wet soil and leaves.

He held the whelp out momentarily under the arms, observing the tiny wheelbarrowing limbs, milk-swollen belly, and the opening mouth that squeaked softly at the unfamiliar contact.

Hoping to quiet the mewling cries, Otto Scarbaach stopped his distant observation, bringing the whelp close to his chest, cradling him.

“Shhh…” He hushed, bouncing the small body lightly in his arm, “Shush, shush, shush…”

Glancing over the body as the front paws kneaded into the grey coat, Otto felt his eyes fall heavily on the hindquarters, lingering on the star sign that glowed dimly in the night.

Ursa Major and Minor. A double sign where there was only supposed to be one.

No twin -- a rare only whelp that had inherited both’ signs. Otto swallowed. That explained the lack of a sibling.

Otto ran a thumb over the markings and the oversized ears, the whelp’s mouth coming to suckle on the pointer finger that cupped around his face.

Otto felt another breath leave his nose again, this time, in a half-formed chuckle.

In all his years of collecting whelps, he had never had the opportunity to hold one such as this.

Upon his observations, a static crackling filled the air, the polymorphs head snapping up and staring into the inky black darkness. Leaves swirled and rose as the electric static picked up, a bolt of buzzing energy splitting the air before opening up wide in a circle.

Otto straightened his back and stared inside the swirling, crackling door, a figure still and waiting on the other side.

“Well?” A British voice questioned, reaching through the window with a green curved claw, “Do you have it?”

Otto Scarbaach stared at the hand, palm up and open. Waiting.

Then the polymorph took a step forward, holding the mewing whelp closer to his wide chest before taking the waiting hand, the claws circling around his dainty wrist.

“ _ Ja... _ I got him now.”

Then, without another word, the man was jerked inside, the portal giving one last crackle before closing in a clean snap.

The woods fell back into a soft quietness, the first signs of a yawning dawn breaking through the trees as the soft sound of rain continued to fall in the dusty darkness. The soft  _ Pitter-Patter,  _ echoing through the trees, the thicket, and the scattered stones across the forest floor.

_ Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter… _

 


End file.
